


The Stories Here Are Different

by uminoko



Category: Marvel
Genre: F/M, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:06:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uminoko/pseuds/uminoko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so, some Rule 63d Red Room Soviet Spies (and there will be more).  Credit for the title goes to Historymiss. http://archiveofourown.org/works/512768</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stories Here Are Different

The men in lab coats stand over the body spread on the table under fluorescent lights.

The men in lab coats stand over the body spread on the table under fluorescent lights.

“Надо же, женщина.”—<Well, that’s a woman.>

<”Americans don’t let women on the front lines, I thought?”>

<”They can afford not to, the assholes.”>  The man puts on glasses and pokes her in the ribs.  <”The Captain’s woman?”>

The other man shrugs.  <”Possibly.  That would explain a few things.”>

<”Lucky.”>  The bespectacled one brushes the matted curls off of the woman’s forehead.  <”Look, a rifle and a few rounds.  She’s a fighter.  That’s useable.”>

<”For Widows?  If, of course, it is possible to teach her loyalty, otherwise there’s no sense in bothering with her.  Set her on their Captain later?”>  A smile spreads across the wrinkled face.

<”Raw materials.  Supposed to speak English, otherwise she’s got nothing.”>  The light flares off the glasses.

A laugh.  <“‘I’d go be a firefighter, let them teach me.’  You lack imagination.”>

<”You’re imagining things.”>  A sigh, clever fingers feel out the biceps of the girl on the table.  <”All right.  In the chair.”>

\-------------

She ducks under the ropes and steps in the ring, shaking the curls out of her eyes. The arms go up in a familiar stance, one fist protecting the face, one lowered to the abdomen. There is a man already waiting in the ring--high cheekbones; closely cropped hair; full, cruel mouth. He watches, then walks over to her. No, that's not walking, it's as if he gliding through water, or--she searches in her mind for the appropriate memory, and the image that comes is air wavering over hot pavement in the city in the dead of summer, though she has never seen a city, or summer, or bustling cars, or hot dog stands. He moves like a heat mirage.

The second thing she notices is the metal and dead lights reflecting off his left arm as he circles around her. It looks incongruous on his body; the rest of him is fluid, and the arm is cold and fixed. On some level, she finds that she relates to the arm.

The man smiles with no mirth and turns slightly, so that the star painted on his left shoulder is exposed, anchoring the room around it.

"Raw," he says, the 'r's a little odd to her ears. "They send me raw materials and expect me to make out of them."

She's quiet. This is hazing; familiar, comforting, even.

"This is insulting." He stops right in front of her.

"How'd it happen?" she asks.

"Oh, good, you're an idiot. Unless you think asking that question will throw me off, in which case you're still an idiot."

She says nothing. He runs his hand through his hair--auburn; there is a scar on the side of the head--and sighs.

"I got my arm ripped off in the service of this great country, the kind of service you may only hope to do someday. Put your arms down, this isn't a back alley." He presses her top fist down, without exerting any force, yet she is surprised to see her fist follow, despite her resistance.

"You're a sniper," he says, and it's not quite a question.

She shrugs.

"I haven't seen American female snipers. Our women took Berlin with their guns."

She wonders when he's going to start making a point.

He moves faster than her brain can process, and she's on the ground, his knee resting lightly on her throat, before she sees him strike.

"You're crap at close combat," he informs her. "Don't think like a sniper; you ought to let people get close..." He cuts himself off as she is about to protest. "No, not like that, not like you were, that was just asking to be hit."

He pauses again. "Why are you even thinking about punching me. You can't. I'd crush your windpipe halfway through your attempt to connect."

"Worth it," she whispers.

"Yes, that's an idiot," he gets up and waits for her to do the same. "Try _now_."


End file.
